


Numerically speaking, I've always loved you

by Ariane_DeVere



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (Im)Mortal Enemies, Angst, Aziraphale’s a rubbish angel, Crowley’s a rubbish demon, Enemies to Friends, Episode 3 cold opening, Friendship, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Idiots, M/M, Self-Doubt, Unhappiness, and they’re probably right, because i’m soft, choosing to be on their own side, death of humans in Mesopotamia, death of humans in the London Blitz, decapitation of demons (brief mention), final chapter is in 2019 so we know it’ll be a happy ending, finally confessing their feelings for each other, friends to something more, hard times, idiots realising they’re in love, idiots taking forever to realise they’re in love, idiots uncertain how to cope with being in love, internal querying of the expectations of a demon, internal querying of the will of the Almighty, or so they think, self-questioning, they were never (im)mortal enemies were they
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24976855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariane_DeVere/pseuds/Ariane_DeVere
Summary: A journey through history with an angel and a demon who are supposed to be on opposite sides but repeatedly fail to remember that they’re meant to be enemies and soon – well, within a few thousand years – begin to realise that they’re way more than just casual acquaintances.Eleven short(ish) stories, each based around one of the ten scenes from the Episode 3 cold open, plus an epilogue.  Each chapter contains the same number of words as the year in which the scene takes place, e.g. chapter 1, based in 4004 BC, is 4004 words long; chapter 10 in Soho is 1967 words long, etc ...  Chapters 3 and 4 in particular are therefore very short!  Total word count including 2019 epilogue (although AO3 will indicate otherwise): 18,802.  Plus a numerically-related Author’s Note.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 87
Kudos: 65





	1. 4004 BC - The Garden of Eden

Well, that was quite the most unusual encounter he has ever had in his whole existence.

Aziraphale has never seen a demon before. He was kept out of the way when Lucifer and his followers were banished from Heaven. He and the other younger angels were sent away and kept busy with what felt like rather unnecessary tasks, although they were of course happy to undertake them. But there had been a few rumours for some time, always whispered with nervousness and much looking around to check that there were no older angels in the vicinity. One youngster dared to suggest that Lucifer and Beelzebub were encouraging others to ask questions of the Almighty. He was immediately shushed by his companions, but he met Aziraphale’s eyes and nodded firmly at him as if to confirm his belief in what he had said. 

As the younger angels continued their work, there was suddenly a great deal of noise in the distance, and the youngsters could hear angry raised voices. Aziraphale knew about angry voices. He had experienced them more than once first-hand from elder angels when he failed to complete his tasks to their expected standards. He wondered whether the recipients of this current anger would also be told what a terrible disappointment they were. He fervently hoped that they wouldn’t, even if they hadn’t completed their work successfully. It was a horrible feeling to be told that you were letting the Almighty down and that you needed to put more effort into your work. Aziraphale _always_ put effort into his work, doing his best to produce a perfect result, and it was awful to be told that his efforts weren’t good enough. But he would fight back his feelings of distress and try even harder the next time. Somehow he hardly ever seemed to be able to satisfy his elders, and their withering comments were always terribly painful but he would meekly bow his head and promise to do better in future.

The angry voices became even louder, and then there was the strange sound of clashing metal. Some of the youngsters murmured in concern, wondering what was causing the sound, but Aziraphale recognised it. One of the few tasks he had completed successfully was making a new object called a sword, following Uriel’s instructions carefully and crafting the object with precision and devotion when Uriel explained how important it would be. He had been praised for his work, which made him feel marvellously happy, but Uriel hadn’t explained to him the purpose of the sword. It wasn’t for him to ask, of course, but he had often wondered about it since then. He had even enquired whether he could assist with making more swords, but Uriel had dismissed his request and told him that others were working on the task.

As the sound of clashing swords continued, Aziraphale wondered whether the sword he’d made was finally finding its purpose. He certainly hoped so. After all, why else would he have had to make it if it didn’t have a great and good reason for existing? 

The young angels weren’t immediately told why Lucifer and Beelzebub and many other angels seemed to have disappeared or moved to another part of Heaven, neither was any explanation given of why some of the elder angels had wounds and scars which took an inordinately long time to heal. One of the youngsters dared to ask a hesitant question of their tutor and was immediately bundled out of sight. Aziraphale didn’t ever see her again.

Some long time afterwards, the younger angels were taught about the existence of a new place called Hell, inhabited by creatures known as demons and ruled over by Lucifer, who was now a demon himself and was therefore an “enemy.” Aziraphale struggled with the lessons, finding it hard to grasp the concept of anyone not loving the Almighty and their life in Heaven. He himself was always happy and full of joy whenever he was set a task and did his utmost to fulfil his purpose. He secretly thought to himself that maybe Lucifer and his friends might have been happier if _they_ had been given the job of making more swords.

He didn’t learn the true purpose of swords until he was sent to the Almighty’s recent great project, a beautiful round planet called Earth. Even when Michael handed him the very sword which he had made and sent him off to Eden to protect the Gate, he wasn’t sure what he was meant to do if anybody should dare venture into the Garden. Michael hadn’t given him any specific instructions other than to look out for and prevent any evil incursion. What was he supposed to do if a demon came to the Garden? What use would the sword be? He couldn’t use it to push the demon away – the sharp cutty end could stick into the demon and hurt it and he didn’t want to do that. He just had to hope that the flames would dissuade any evil-doer from coming closer.

He had wandered around the Garden for several days, admiring the beauty of the Almighty’s creation and had completely missed the arrival of the serpent because nobody had explained that demons could come up into the Garden from underground. Maybe if he’d thought about it he should have realised this, but it didn’t occur to him until after the serpent had already tempted the humans. The first he knew of anything going wrong was when the Almighty addressed the humans, and the anger and disappointment in Her voice had Aziraphale cowering in a corner of the Garden and not daring to approach Her. He ached with sympathy for the humans, knowing from first-hand experience how they must feel, and once the Almighty had withdrawn he sought them out. A large hole had been blasted in the bottom of the wall and they were preparing to leave, their faces sad and bewildered. His heart went out to them and, without even thinking about it, he gave them the one piece of comfort he could offer. He was sure that the Almighty couldn’t object; She had created these wonderful people, after all, and even if they had disobeyed Her instructions, it wasn’t their fault, was it? And they would need warmth at night in the desert, and the flames from the sword would surely keep the animals away.

And then he met the demon who had caused all the trouble. Strangely, he wasn’t the least bit afraid of him even though he didn’t have the sword to wave at him. And anyway, the demon seemed friendly enough although he raised a lot of questions, which filled Aziraphale with a combination of horror and a begrudging admiration for his daring. Still, Aziraphale thought it his duty to explain to the demon – who had introduced himself as Crawly – about the Great Plan and its ineffability. Crawly didn’t seem to be paying attention and was more interested in the absence of the sword, which surely proved that it was indeed a fearsome object. Again, Aziraphale was surprised at himself – he ought to be concerned that he had nothing to protect himself, but Crawly seemed so impressed, indeed amazed, that Aziraphale had simply given it away that he couldn’t bring himself to believe that the demon would try to harm him.

It was while Crawly was wondering aloud whether he himself had been wrong – or, rather, _right_ – in persuading the humans to eat the apple that Aziraphale saw Adam in the distance, waving the sword at an approaching lion. He watched nervously, hoping to see proof that the flames would drive it away. The lion, however, seemed unfazed by the fire and kept approaching the couple and after a few more attempts to frighten it off Adam lifted the sword and slashed it down onto the lion’s head. The lion dropped to the ground and didn’t get up.

Aziraphale stared in horror. Surely this wasn’t what the sword was meant to do? Surely Heaven wouldn’t make something designed to hurt other beings? Oh, this was terrible; his pretty sword had been used for a purpose it had never been designed for.

He didn’t have time to think further about it because the demon was still talking, apparently joking about how both of them could have got it wrong. Crawly smiled so nicely at him when he said it that Aziraphale couldn’t help returning the smile until the words sunk in and he had to protest that there was nothing funny about that. When Crawly turned away and shrugged Aziraphale felt disappointed in himself for wiping out that lovely smile.

He would have apologised but then water started falling from the sky. Aziraphale had no idea why this should be happening, and apparently neither did Crawly if his nervous shuffle towards him was anything to go by. Aziraphale didn’t hesitate: he lifted his left wing to give Crawly the space to get closer to him and then realised a second purpose for it and hoisted it upwards and over the demon’s head. Aziraphale didn’t know how much water was going to fall and whether it was ever going to stop, but he was certainly going to do all he could to protect his new acquaintance.

* * *

So it really has been a very unusual day so far, and Aziraphale would quite like to sit down and think about everything that has happened. Crawly left shortly after the ... apparently it’s called ‘rain’ ... stopped, saying that he had to report back to head office, but added casually that he might pop back later. Aziraphale finds that he’s already missing his company and hopes that he really will return. He reminds himself that demons are wily and dishonest and not to be trusted and so he might never come back, or he might bring a horde of demons with him to try and do harm to one single angel with no back-up and not even a sword to wave at them ... or slash onto their heads ... no, he doesn’t even want to consider taking that action. He doesn’t have much time to fret about it before a message is beamed down to him that the Garden must be shut off from the rest of the world forever and that Aziraphale must therefore seal the hole which the Almighty blasted in the wall.

It’s a fairly straightforward task and he’s soon lifting the last boulder. He bends down to peer through the gap, taking one last wistful look at the Garden before fitting the stone into its slot, ready to be sealed to the rest of the wall. He straightens up and is about to admire his work when a beam of Heavenly light shines down on him from behind and a Voice – _Her_ Voice – sounds from the skies.

“Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate.”

He quails internally. _Oh, no! The demon!_ is his first thought. _What if She saw him and is going to punish me for talking with him?_ Then a worse thought strikes him. _What if She’s going to punish him for spoiling the Great Plan? What if he’s already returned from Hell and is somewhere nearby?_

He realises that he can’t just keep standing here with his back to Her and nervously turns around.

“Yes, Lord?” he asks, anxiously waving in Her direction in an attempted friendly manner.

“Where is the flaming sword I gave you, Aziraphale, to guard the Gate of Eden?”

 _Oh, that’s a relief,_ he thinks. _She just wants to know about the sword ... oh, but wait, what if Crawly hears Her voice and comes to investigate?_

He hopes fervently that Crawly – if he is around – will be sensible enough to stay well out of Her way, then finally remembers that he was asked a question. 

Oh no! He can’t tell Her what he did with the sword. She might find out what Adam used it for, and seeing as She can’t possibly have intended it to cause harm to anyone or anything, She might be very cross with the humans. And She’s _already_ cross with the humans, and Aziraphale would hate to give Her a reason to be even more angry.

So he blathers vaguely about where he might have put it, and eventually She gets bored and leaves without waiting for a full explanation. Relieved as he is that She hasn’t pressed him, Aziraphale feels horribly guilty about not being truthful with Her.

“Oh dear,” he says regretfully, but tries not to think too hard about it as he turns around to seal the final stone into the wall.

He doesn’t get a recall notice once he’s finished and he can’t return to Heaven until it arrives, so he wanders out into the desert. There’s no sign of Adam and Eve, and he skirts around the body of the lion still lying in the sand and walks further away to climb the nearest dune. The sun has almost set by the time he reaches the top and he scans in all directions for any sign of light from the sword but there is darkness all around. He’s relieved that they took his advice and got far away before night fell.

With nothing better to do, he miracles up a small fire and settles down beside it.

The lion’s body is out of sight, but he can’t stop thinking about it. Why hadn’t he wondered before whether the sharp edges of the sword had a specific purpose? He had only assumed it was a decorative object, or maybe an award to be given to deserving angels who had carried out very good deeds, not some kind of ... weapon. Why would Heaven need weapons?

The shock hits him a few moments later. He made his sword _long_ before Lucifer initiated the rebellion, and Uriel told him that other swords were being made. _Surely_ they had had a different purpose back then? But what?

His thoughts keep crashing in on him as he begins to realise the possible truth. What if Heaven had been _expecting_ a rebellion, knew that it was inevitable and that angels would turn against each other and want to fight each other? What if swords were made in anticipation of the rebellion?

And then Aziraphale lets out an anguished groan when he remembers the elder angels who had been seen with injuries and scars after the youngsters had been sent away and had heard what he now realises was a battle. Many of those wounds were long and thin and could have been caused by ... oh, no. He buries his head in his hands and cries quietly. Was _his_ sword used in the battle? Did _his_ sword cause some of those terrible injuries?

Was his sword always intended to kill, like it did the lion?

And worst of all, was his sword partly responsible for the expulsion of so many angels from Heaven? Former angels like Crawly?

Aziraphale whimpers. He doesn’t dare contemplate the possibility that Crawly might have scars.

* * *

“Still here, then?”

Aziraphale yelps and scrambles back across the sand, flailing around as if searching for something to defend himself with, then he relaxes a little when the approaching creature slithers closer. He has only met one serpent but he has to assume that this is the same one, especially as it’s able to speak in his own tongue.

“Oh, hello, Crawly,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant and completely not-at-all panicked. “I wasn’t sure whether you would come back.” He casts a wary eye out into the darkness, looking to see if there are any other demons lurking out there, but so far Crawly seems to be alone.

The serpent raises up off the sand and shimmers into his human form. His grin suggests that Aziraphale’s casual greeting hadn’t been at all convincing. Aziraphale averts his gaze, trying to pretend to himself that his eyes hadn’t been raking over Crawly’s body as he changed, looking for any signs of old wounds or scars.

“I thought you might be gone by now,” Crawly remarks, stretching his arms above his head and bending sinuously from side to side while spreading his wings wide. “Then I saw the fire in the distance. Assumed it couldn’t be the humans if they knew what was good for them, so figured it might be you.” He lowers his arms and peers at Aziraphale. “Why aren’t you back upstairs?”

“Well,” Aziraphale begins hesitantly. “I’m just ... keeping an eye on things for the time being. I’ll be recalled shortly, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you will. It’s not like they’d forgot you down here, would they?”

Aziraphale frowns a little. He’s not sure he likes Crawly’s sarcastic tone. He’s also not sure he likes the slight stab he feels in his heart when he realises that it is actually possible that Heaven _has_ forgotten him, or been distracted by something far more important than recalling a principality who apparently doesn’t even know where his sword is.

“So,” he says, trying to change the subject. “You came back up outside the wall, I assume?”

“Naah, came back up the same way I went down,” Crawly says. “Easier to tunnel through already-broken soil.” He grimaces and brushes his robe down. “At least I thought it would be.”

“How did you get out of the Garden?” Aziraphale asks. “It’s been sealed up.”

Crawly gives him a withering look. “Serpent,” he says pointedly. He flamboyantly gestures down his body and then apparently realises that that wasn’t the most appropriate move now that he’s in human form and drops his hands to his sides. “Good at slithering up walls, you might remember.” He pauses for what appears to be dramatic effect, then continues. “Also good at slithering _down_ walls on the other side.” He pulls a face. “I could have burrowed underneath, but the soil was awfully sticky since that ... what was that wet stuff called?”

“Rain,” Aziraphale tells him.

“Right. It was a real bugger, anyway, getting up into the Garden through all the stickiness, and I didn’t fancy doing it again once I realised the wall was sealed all the way around. Plus I wasn’t even sure if I’d be able to use my wings if I changed into this form.”

His gaze becomes distant for a moment and he looks a little distressed. Aziraphale wonders whether he should ask if there’s anything wrong, but isn’t sure if that would be polite. 

Crawly shakes his head as if forcing himself to focus on the conversation. “So a good slither seemed to be the order of the day, and the sticky stuff wiped off on the wall and ...” he gestures at himself again ... “I was clean by the time I got back down to the ground.”

“Oh. Of course,” Aziraphale says, then gestures to the fire. “Well, please, do join me if you’d like to.”

“Thanks.” Crawly flops down a few feet away.

“Sooo ...” he says after a moment. “Gonna introduce yourself?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry! How very rude of me. I’m Aziraphale.”

Is there a momentary flash of recognition in the demon’s eyes? It’s so fast that Aziraphale barely has time to wonder before Crawly turns his gaze away and looks into the fire.

“And you’re Crawly,” Aziraphale says.

Crawly shrugs. “I am now,” he says.

“What do you mean, ‘now’?” Aziraphale asks.

Crawly’s eyes are fixed on the fire. “Got a message from Herself after I tempted the humans. I hung around the Garden to see whether my tempting had worked. Shouldn’t have, really; knew it might be dangerous but if I’d gone back down and then found out that eating the apple wasn’t the big bad thing that they’d been threatened with, I wouldn’t have been very popular. So I hung around, made myself comfortable in a tree – not _The_ Tree, I’m not stupid – and waited to see what happened next. What _did_ happen next was that a bloody great archangel turned up, all massive wings and dazzling light and booming voice, and gave me a right bollocking on Her behalf.”

“Which archangel?” Aziraphale asks.

“Dunno,” Crawly shrugs. “I had my eyes averted the whole time.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale tries not to feel hurt that the archangel didn’t visit him or let him hear they were there. “What did they say?”

“Don’t want to talk about it,” Crawly says shortly.

“Of course. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Crawly falls silent for a while, then sighs.

“Let’s just say that there’s a reason why my eyes don’t change when I take human shape,” he says quietly, “and why I’ve got this brand.” He gestures to the mark near his right ear. “And I’m now stuck with the name Crawly, to remind me of my ‘sin’ for buggering up Her timetable.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says sympathetically. “I’m so sorry.”

Crawly shrugs again. “They found it hysterical downstairs when I told them. Once he’d stopped laughing, Lucifer said he reckoned he could fix it so I might be able to change it in a few thousand years’ time without going up in a massive burst of spontaneous combustion.”

Aziraphale is diplomatic enough not to ask what his name used to be, even though he’s burning with curiosity. They sit in silence for a long while and it isn’t until the first hint of dawn’s light appears in the east that Crawly lifts his head.

“Aziraphale ...”

“Yes?”

Crawly’s voice is hesitant. “Was that ... _Her_ talking to you outside the wall yesterday?”

“Yes, yes it was,” Aziraphale admits. “You heard Her? Well, obviously you did. I have to say, I was rather worried that She might be looking for you.” He grimaces. “I didn’t realise that She had already ... well, you know.”

Crawly nods. “What did She want with you?” he asks.

“Oh, you know ...” Aziraphale swallows. “Actually She wanted to know what I’d done with the sword.”

“What did you tell Her?”

Aziraphale wriggles awkwardly. “Well, I didn’t want to tell Her that I gave it to the humans, so I just pretended I’d put it down somewhere and couldn’t remember where.”

Crawly turns his head and stares at him, that same amazed stare he gave him on the wall. “You naughty angel!” he says in an admiring tone.

Aziraphale ought to be offended – or at least embarrassed – at being called that, but he’s so unused to being complimented that he can’t help but feel a little pleased. He smiles tentatively at the demon, who returns his smile. Then they both seem to remember that they’re supposed to be on opposite sides and look away awkwardly.

They sit in silence for a long time, then eventually Crawly sighs. “I miss Her,” he says quietly.

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say to that. No matter how hard he thinks, he simply can’t come up with any appropriate words, so he remains silent.

Eventually Crawly stretches dramatically and stands up. “Places to be,” he says.

Aziraphale stands too. “It was nice to meet you,” he says politely. “Will you be returning to Earth again?”

“Dunno,” Crawly shrugs.

“Maybe we’ll meet again.”

“Seems unlikely,” Crawly tells him. “Even if we both get sent here again, what are the chances of us bumping into each other? It’s a great big planet, and once the humans start breeding and spreading out, we’ll be travelling all over the place.”

“Well, you never know.” Aziraphale offers him a hopeful smile.

“Yeah, you never do.” The demon looks thoughtful, then gives him a small grin. “All right, then. Perhaps we _will_ run into each other sometimes.”

He smiles more widely. “See you around, angel.”

Aziraphale can’t be sure, but that sounds more than just a description of what he is. He can’t understand the warm wave of affection that sweeps over him as he watches the demon stroll away.

He rather likes it, though.


	2. 3004 BC - Mesopotamia

Crawly has always known that he’s not very good at being a demon. What he _is_ good at is hiding that fact from everyone else. He _has_ to, for his own self-preservation. Sometimes he wishes there was someone he could talk to about his doubts and his questions about why he hasn’t bought into the whole demon thing, but he knows that if he tried he’d be reported to the bosses, and his life would be misery after that.

Hell is delighted when the humans begin to breed and spread out over the planet. The arrival of the first human souls is a momentous occasion; at last the demons have other beings to torture besides each other. Crawly – the first tempter – is assigned to Earth to garner as many souls as he can; while many humans will make their way downstairs all on their own, Hell is eager for more and has no intention of letting Heaven get their fair share of souls. 

Crawly is not the only demon assigned to Earth to tempt people to become evil enough to damn their souls, but he’s _very_ good at it, according to his reports, and the next five-hundred-yearly audit shows that he has garnered more souls than all the other demons put together. 

He always phrases his reports very carefully, not letting anyone realise that while he has indeed tempted many humans to carry out bad deeds and enjoy them, thereby tarnishing their soul, he has never taken the final step which will condemn a human to eternal damnation. As he travels around the Earth he looks carefully into each person’s soul and if they’re already well on the way to total corruption he won’t approach them. He chooses people who are not incontrovertibly evil, and he always leaves them at a point where they could still redeem themselves if they choose to.

After the audit Beelzebub calls him into their office and gives him a promotion: he can return to Hell full-time and teach other demons his methods of temptation. Beelzebub tells him that he’ll have the added pleasure of tormenting any demon who doesn’t come up to scratch, and on his days off he can join the team torturing the human souls which he sent down there in the first place.

Crawly is appalled. He _is_ a good tempter, there’s no doubt about it, and for the first few hundred years he relished the work. He didn’t even realise for a while that he wasn’t taking that final step to guarantee a human’s damnation, and even when he did realise it he couldn’t bring himself to change his tactics. He doesn’t even know why; it just doesn’t feel right to bring about eternal agony and torture when the torment which Crawly went through himself after he Fell still burns in his memory.

Eventually he admits to himself that he’s simply a rubbish demon but that he’s good at protecting himself, and also that he wants to give the humans just a little chance of saving themselves if they’re given the option of putting their minds to it.

He has no choice but to take on the new job, and he actually quite enjoys coaching other demons, dramatically exaggerating his methods and teaching the not-so-subtle art of temptation. His pupils lap up his lessons – he’s been a bit of a legend ever since he single-handedly got the first humans evicted from Eden, especially when he tells the tale of how he had to fight off a determined but weak angel who tried to prevent him every step of the way. He enthusiastically relates how he thwarted the angel’s every move and even though the angel had a massive flaming sword, Crawly was too wily for him and eventually the angel had no choice but to retreat. The story becomes more and more exaggerated every time he tells it, but his pupils don’t seem to notice.

Sometimes a whole lesson is taken up with his story and very little actual teaching takes place.

But he does have to show that he _is_ actually successfully doing his job and so the demons do learn more about temptation. Crawly realises that once they’re out in the field they will manage to corrupt more humans. It would be better if _he_ was back out there, doing low-level tempting and then lying about it, stopping too many humans from facing eternity in agony.

He manages to avoid ever joining the torture crews by explaining that on his days off he would rather pop up to Earth to keep an eye on his students. Beelzebub is impressed by his dedication and allows it. They have no idea that he spends a lot of his time thwarting the work of the other demons; frequently when a demon is on the verge of condemning a human beyond the point of no return, something happens to distract him and the deed isn’t completed. Crawly makes sure that the demon isn’t able to hide the fact and at the next five-hundred-yearly audit the potential soul count has dropped dramatically. Beelzebub is furious, and Crawly is summoned and interrogated. He smoothly blags his way through the conversation, explaining that tempting is an instinct and you either have it or you don’t. He’s done his best with his pupils but most of them simply _don’t_ have it. Beelzebub violently throws some heavy objects – and a few demons – around the office, but eventually subsides and goes into discussion with Dagon and a few other senior demons. Two days later Crawly receives a message saying he’s being deployed back to Earth full-time.

He arrives back on Earth just in time to hear rumours about something big coming from upstairs. He nips over to Mesopotamia, where it’s apparently all going to kick off, and wanders towards the crowd which is watching a ridiculously large boat being built on the top of a hill. Even more ridiculous is the sight of lots of animals being led towards it. What the Heaven is going on?

And – talking of Heaven – is that white-clad person in the distance who he thinks it is?

He moves through the crowd until he can confirm that it really is Aziraphale standing there. He’s surprised by the frisson of delight that runs through him but does his best to play it cool when he approaches the angel. He doesn’t feel anywhere near as happy when Aziraphale explains what’s about to happen; indeed he’s appalled that Heaven is being so awful. If Hell is watching, they must be taking notes by now, and Crawly is shocked at the savagery that is about to be unleashed.

He can’t spend as much time with Aziraphale as he would like to; the angel quickly excuses himself when the rain starts, saying that he has an important task to undertake. Crawly feels a strong pang of loss as he watches him hurry away, but he remembers Aziraphale’s look of regret while he was talking about what’s to come. For someone who’s supposed to be completely behind everything that the Almighty chooses to do, he looked remarkably upset. Crawly wonders whether Aziraphale is as bad at being an angel as he himself is at being a demon. It’s an intriguing thought, and one worth contemplating in detail. Could Crawly have found someone who might understand him and his doubts about his purpose?

But he doesn’t have time to think about it now. The rain becomes torrential and very quickly stops soaking into the ground. Puddles get deeper and join together, becoming ponds and then lakes. The nearby sea rises and pours over the land and within hours there’s no ground left. The humans scream and panic, flailing around in the ever-deepening water, many of them eventually succumbing and sinking below the surface, only to bob up again later, silent and motionless and bloated. Others cry out to God, begging for mercy, for forgiveness, for rescue. Crawly, involved in his own struggle to stay afloat, grits his teeth and refrains from screaming out the truth to them. They’re in enough anguish as it is; if they knew that this is being done deliberately to them by the very being they believe in, it’ll be the worst betrayal of all.

He realises grimly that Hell’s in for a field day today. Heaven is too, and he hopes that every one of the souls that makes it upstairs will spend the rest of eternity making the angels’ lives a misery with their demands for an explanation. He doesn’t even care that that thought makes no sense: he knows more than anyone where asking questions in Heaven will get you.

He can’t save anyone. There’s nowhere to take them. The Ark isn’t an option; blessed as it is by Herself and designed only to carry the ones She’s chosen to save, he wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near it. There’s nothing he can do, and so he might as well get out of here, away from all this carnage. 

There’s no ground left for him to burrow into even if he changed into his snake form. Swimming down through the ocean isn’t an option; as a snake he would be swept around by the currents and wouldn’t be able to reach the sea bed, and he’s not sure that he could fight the tides even in his human form. The only option is upwards; he could at least _try_ to use his wings. It will hardly matter if any humans see him; they’ll all be dead soon. 

He hasn’t dared attempt to fly since the archangel cursed him in Eden. As long as he didn’t try, he wouldn’t find out if they didn’t work any more.

He concentrates, preparing to manifest his wings, but then stops. He still can’t face knowing the truth.

When he can’t bear the screaming, the choking, the pleading, any longer he lets himself sink, allowing the water to take him wherever it wants. It’s several hours before his battered body reaches the sea bed. Too depressed to even try and transform into snake form, he sits down, wraps his arms around his knees and stares unblinking into the silent darkness. If anyone else from Hell should be around and comes across him, they won’t be able to see the tears in his eyes.

He sits there for a very long time, and so doesn’t see the promised ‘rain bow’ when it finally appears in the sky.

* * *

In a compartment in the lower levels of the Ark, Aziraphale sits surrounded by children, telling them a story about the Lord and the early days of Earth while they nibble on the bread and fruit that he has brought with him.

The children are not related to Noah or his family. Aziraphale had been standing on the roof of the Ark after it began to float, using his powers to keep it stabilised while the floodwaters roiled around it, threatening to tilt it over. The waves lashed into the sides, water and detritus – and bodies – smashing against the wood and trying to break through it. Aziraphale concentrated, strengthening the joints and idly wondering why the Almighty hadn’t given Noah more instructions on boat-building. The Ark really wasn’t designed to take the abuse it was currently receiving and if it wasn’t for Aziraphale’s efforts it might already have started to fall apart. Thank goodness Gabriel had sent him down to ensure that the Lord’s chosen family stayed safe.

It was many days later when the waters had risen so high that they had cleared most of the landmasses and had settled down and become more smooth. Aziraphale checked the stability of the Ark one last time and then relaxed his hold over it. The Ark creaked and groaned for a while, the wood settling into a formation that wasn’t being held together purely by an angel’s will, then the boat eventually decided to stay afloat on its own. Sitting down tiredly on the roof Aziraphale sighed and considered going inside to get out of the rain which was still lashing down. The Almighty hadn’t been exaggerating when She decided to drown the entire area, sending the rains down until all the land was under water. Currently there were still many high places poking out of the ocean but they were becoming fewer and farther between and would probably all be gone within a week, but Aziraphale knew that the rain would continue for much longer than that. When God got a bit tetchy, She clearly went all out to make Her point.

As usual, Aziraphale hadn’t received any instructions on what to do once the Ark was safe. He supposed he would just have to stay onboard until Heaven remembered where he was and told him what to do next.

He was about to stand up when the Ark rounded the top of a high hill sticking out of the water and faint cries reached his ears. Peering through the rain he saw a group of people huddled together on a ledge a few feet above the ocean. He sighed. The poor things wouldn’t survive much longer; he calculated they had about half a day before the water would rise to their position and wash them out to sea.

Well, there was nothing he could do about it. He stood up and was about to make his way inside when a flurry of wind cleared the view a little and ... Oh. No. They were children. All of them – about fifteen of them – were children.

The rain lashed down on them and they looked exhausted and terrified. Several of them were crying; others just stared blankly at the rising water, too shocked to even be afraid any more.

 _“Not the kids. You can’t kill kids.”_ Crawly’s appalled voice played back in his mind. He tried to push it away. There _had_ to be a reason for this. There _had_ to be a righteous and justifiable reason why these children – too young to have even had the chance to choose between being good or being evil – should die in such a horrific way.

_“That’s more the kind of thing you’d expect my lot to do.”_

Even at the time Aziraphale had found himself secretly agreeing with Crawly’s words.

He stared in anguish for a while as the Ark drifted closer, then finally he couldn’t bear it any longer, went inside and down to the lower levels, found a spot a few feet above the waterline and concentrated. A hole appeared in the outer wall and an area of calm water settled around it outside, stretching towards the children’s ledge. Aziraphale focussed his energy and began to draw the kids towards him.

And now he’s sitting with the rescued children, having hidden them away in a large compartment which he has protected with wards that prevent any of the humans knowing that they’re there. He tries not to dwell on the fact that he didn’t just save that small group but continued extracting kids from the water for the next few hours, until there were no more to be saved. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to rescue any of the older humans, justifying it to himself by realising that the Ark simply couldn’t take too many additional people. When there were no more children to save he had stared out at the ocean and had let the tears stream down his face at the sight of so many bloated bodies floating on the surface, some of them with an agonised rictus on their face which seemed to demand of him, _Why? Why did you allow this? What did I do wrong? And why didn’t you save me?_

He shakes off the horrific memory as he continues his story, keeping it light and cheery and assuring the children that they will live happy and healthy lives and that all will be well once the waters recede and they’re back on dry land.

He wishes he could believe it himself. 

Eventually the children become tired and settle down to sleep. He moves among them, covering them with blankets, reassuring any who are still fretful, and giving toys to the very young ones to cuddle for comfort. 

Once they’re all asleep he moves to the door of the compartment and looks back at them, feeling a burst of warmth and affection while wondering again what made him take this action. Younger angels are meant to follow their instructions to the letter and are not supposed to deviate from their task or take their own initiative. His only orders were to keep the Ark safe; everything else he has done is strictly against his specific instructions. He realises that this is the second time he has defied the Almighty, but this time it’s much worse than the first, directly interfering with the Great Plan. Why is Crawly such a bad influence on him? And – more to the point – why doesn’t he mind? And – even _more_ to the point – is it remotely possible that he _wasn’t_ actually influenced by Crawly but decided to save the kids on his own initiative, because he realised that letting them drown was just _wrong_? How could the Almighty be wrong? How could the Great Plan be wrong?

But it can’t possibly be Crawly’s influence that made him save the kids. That would be ridiculous. It was purely Aziraphale’s own decision and even if he can’t explain to himself why he is defying the Lord like this, he’s sure that he wouldn’t be doing it if there wasn’t a very good reason for it. Eventually everything will be just fine, and he’ll be able to justify his decisions both to himself and to his superiors. It’ll all be tickety-boo, he’s sure of it.

He shakes off his thoughts, looks fondly at the sleeping children once more, then quietly leaves and makes his way to the compartment next door to feed the baby goats which he also rescued.


	3. 33 AD - Golgotha

Crowley wasted forty days trying to tempt the man, but all he remembers now is Aziraphale’s look of anguish as the man was crucified. Why should an angel’s pain hurt Crowley so much?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _[Why is it far more difficult to write a 33-word story than one that’s several hundred/thousand words long?!]_


	4. 41 AD - Rome

Aziraphale never thought he would offer to tempt a demon, not even one who he’s liked for four thousand years, but he looks so unhappy that he can’t help trying to distract him. Crowley’s quirky amused smile makes it all worthwhile.


	5. 537 AD - The Kingdom of Wessex

All right, yes, he was showing off. He knew it was Aziraphale – after all, the idiot announced himself when he arrived, obviously having no idea who the Black Knight really was. But Crowley is ever the showman and he knows that his dramatic “you have found your death” speech will have impressed his serfs even if he didn’t follow through with his threat.

He spends the rest of the afternoon bragging to them about how the ignorant knight with the fancy white cape had scurried away in terror, not daring to fight him once he realised that the Black Knight was powerful and undefeatable. He smugly explains how King Arthur’s attempts to bring peace to the country are doomed to failure, thanks to his clever scheming. His serfs nod and fawn at his feet, telling him what a great fomenter he is and how they love to serve him, and that he will no doubt be a mighty king once Arthur has been defeated, which will undoubtedly be very soon indeed.

Crowley isn’t taken in by their grovelling for a moment, and unusually he takes no pleasure from the fear on their faces while they pretend to adore him. He can’t understand why he isn’t gratified by their terror and dread of him, and after he has dismissed them for the night he grumpily curses them to be plagued by fleas in their bedding.

It’s only later, when he’s tucked inside a pile of furs on the floor of his tent, a fire roaring nearby and keeping out the bitter cold and damp, that he realises that he is disappointed. He could have been here with Aziraphale, sitting by the fire sharing a jug or two of ale and telling each other stories of what they’ve been up to since they were last together. It’s nearly five hundred years since they met in the aftermath of his awful and depressing experiences in Rome, and Crowley still remembers the relief of spending three days with Aziraphale while the angel took him to several different restaurants and inns and introduced him to so many different foods and drinks. It was almost as if Aziraphale sensed how unhappy Crowley was and went out of his way to cheer him up; he chattered incessantly for all of those memorable three days and seemed to be deliberately attempting to distract him from his misery. Crowley being Crowley, he had done his best to refuse to be cheered up, but the angel’s happy smiling face and cheery banter had dragged the unwilling demon out of the darkness and by the time Aziraphale had to leave on a new mission, Crowley was forced to admit to himself – albeit very reluctantly – that he was feeling better.

Of course he hadn’t said anything of the sort in his report to head office. He had bragged about his many temptations of successive emperors (as if they _needed_ any tempting) and had included an addendum of how he had then tempted Heaven’s agent into wasting three days indulging in the local fare instead of getting on with his assignment. 

Crowley had received yet another commendation for that.

But, damn it all, this evening he really misses the angel.


	6. 1601 - The Globe Theatre, London

The main thing that Aziraphale likes about the Arrangement is that – on most occasions – he has the opportunity to meet up with Crowley, and on _very_ good occasions they have time to have a meal or some drinks together. When, instead, they make arrangements to share their assignments by letter, Aziraphale is always disappointed that they can’t meet in person.

It was Crowley who first mooted formally the idea of the Arrangement after his casual suggestion in King Arthur’s England. He kept pushing the idea over the decades until Aziraphale finally gave in, mainly because his most recent assignment would involve him getting very muddy and ruining his clothes. Initially the Arrangement consists of them each not doing his task and blaming its lack of success on the fact that an ‘unknown angel’ or ‘unknown demon’ had thwarted it. It isn’t until later that Crowley realises that if they’re being sent to the same part of the world, one of them can carry out both assignments and the other can have a holiday.

Aziraphale, of course, will never agree to do anything which will immediately condemn a human’s soul to Hell upon his death, but a minor temptation which will only cause mischief or very minor mayhem is something he can manage without too much guilt, and indeed he occasionally enjoys the fun of being a ‘naughty angel.’ If it’s not interfering with the Great Plan, it can’t be too much of a bad thing, can it? It takes him a while to realise that Crowley has never actually asked him to carry out a temptation which will damn a human; after that he relaxes and even has fun coming up with his own ideas of how to carry out a task.

Crowley, on the other hand, is pretty much up for anything ... including blessing people so soundly that when Aziraphale checks up on them later, he realises that they’re less likely to end up in Hell than they might otherwise have been. He doesn’t dare mention this to Crowley for fear that the demon might stop doing it, but it doesn’t stop him wondering whether Crowley is perhaps not quite as evil as he would have Aziraphale believe.

It seems strange to think that a demon can have a touch of good in him, but if any demon is capable of it, it’s Crowley. He’s so different from the few other demons that Aziraphale has encountered; whenever he has sensed any other demon in the vicinity, the feeling of ‘wrongness’ has made him gasp and choke. Crowley has never ever felt ‘wrong.’

Despite his secret enjoyment of any opportunity to meet with his ‘adversary,’ Aziraphale always gamely protests whenever Crowley suggests a merging of their assignments. He feels like it’s his moral duty to do so as a good and obedient angel (he ignores the voice muttering in his head that he’s anything _but_ good and obedient). He has never suggested a merging of tasks himself, not daring to work against Heaven again after so blatantly getting away with it twice, so whenever Crowley contacts him he’s more delighted than perhaps he ought to be but can’t help admitting to himself that he’s looking forward to seeing the demon again.

It’s been about seventy years since they last saw each other and Aziraphale is filled with joy when Crowley lopes into the Globe Theatre. He’s absolutely thrilled to see him, because even though he’d sent the message saying where they should meet he never knows whether Crowley will actually turn up. The demon hadn’t appeared on a few occasions after they had arranged to meet and Aziraphale had worried frantically until Crowley had finally contacted him to say he was fine and would be in touch properly when he could. He would never explain his absences. 

Aziraphale gazes at Crowley with delight as he walks around to his left-hand side, admiring his latest costume and thinking how handsome he looks, only averting his eyes when Crowley turns to look at him. They’re interrupted by Shakespeare before they can get down to business but once Crowley has distracted him by giving him a line worthy of one of his plays, the man wanders off while scribbling a note to himself and they start their usual banter. Aziraphale can’t help but notice how Crowley keeps circling behind him, looking all around as if checking that they’re not being watched by anyone who shouldn’t be there. Aziraphale is embarrassed that he didn’t think of checking for himself. Why is he always so distracted when Crowley is around?

Crowley hasn’t told him the purpose of this meeting yet, and when Aziraphale tells him of the blessings that he himself has to do in Edinburgh Crowley seems to jump on the idea of one of them doing both their tasks. As always, Aziraphale pretends that it’s a bad idea but this time – for the first time – he feels a stab of genuine fear when Crowley says the words “the Arrangement.”

“Don’t say that,” he says urgently, casting a nervous glance skywards. He tells Crowley his concerns about what would happen to him if anyone found out but Crowley seems unbothered.

“Toss you for Edinburgh,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale realises that he’s not going to talk the demon out of it. He grimaces but admits to himself that – despite his worries – he’s mostly trying to hide his delight. He know that whenever Crowley fiddles a coin toss in his own favour – which is quite frequently, though he thinks it’s not frequently enough to arouse the angel’s suspicion (he’s wrong) (and very rarely Aziraphale nudges the coin himself in Crowley’s favour) – Aziraphale can try to persuade him to buy him a meal or at least a drink as compensation before they go their separate ways. He claims that it’s simply a fair trade but secretly he knows that once they settle down in an inn or an eating house and start talking, they’ll be there for hours chatting and swapping stories and they won’t leave until they’re thrown out by a landlord who wants to close up and go to bed. On a few memorable occasions they’ve ‘persuaded’ the landlord to forget that they’re there and he has unwittingly locked them in before going to bed, leaving them to talk undisturbed for the rest of the night. Aziraphale always leaves enough coins the next day to cover the cost of all the drink which has mysteriously disappeared overnight.

When Aziraphale leaves the Globe Theatre after the play has finished, Crowley is lounging against a wall nearby and takes him to an inn for a night of eating, drinking and talking. They have a lovely time and it’s only after Crowley has left the next morning – heading off to the Mediterranean for a few days’ relaxation, he says – that Aziraphale remembers that it was Crowley who sent a message asking for them to meet, although Aziraphale had suggested the meeting place. In all the hours they were together Crowley never said specifically why he had asked to see him. He couldn’t have known in advance that they were both bound for Scotland, and Aziraphale wonders what the original purpose of Crowley’s request was. In the past one of them has always had a specific reason for them meeting. Why didn’t Crowley seem to have a reason this time? Had he simply forgotten, distracted by Aziraphale saying that he had to go to Edinburgh and realising that they had a similar destination?

Or – and it sends a rather pleasant tingle through his body – had Crowley simply wanted to see him because they’d been apart for a long time? Had he simply wanted to socialise? Does this mean that they are now ... friends?

Aziraphale has never had a friend. Angels don’t have friends. They don’t form close bonds, which Aziraphale has always found to be a shame ever since he saw the friendships that humans form. On early visits back to Heaven he even tried to initiate friendships with his former classmates but they looked at him as if he had no idea what he was doing, and he soon gave up trying.

Yes, it would be nice to have a friend, and Crowley is the only being who he has regularly socialised with. He’d love to have a chance to spend more time with him but he knows how dangerous it could be if their head offices find out. He doesn’t want to endanger Crowley in any way. It would be terrible to lose him – he’s the nicest being he’s ever known. After all, despite their differences of opinion and their opposing loyalties, Crowley is interesting and funny and thought-provoking and dashingly handsome and really quite adorable when he’s in a good mood and sometimes when Aziraphale looks at him his heart goes quite wobbly and he just wants to ...

Aziraphale gasps.

Lord preserve him, is he falling in love with a demon?

* * *

It’s during his time in Edinburgh that Aziraphale, desperate for something to distract himself from his realisation of his feelings for someone he really shouldn’t be having feelings for, spends more time than he ought to with the clan leader and learns about the history and significance of Clan Tartan. He looks down at his latest outfit and begins to get an idea. Designing his very own Clan Tartan should keep him extremely busy concentrating on the pattern he wants, and it will also keep his mind occupied from thinking about a certain demon.

It doesn’t work. The _tartan_ does. The distraction doesn’t.


	7. 1793 - Paris

Crowley first realises that he can detect when Aziraphale is in trouble in 1631. The Thirty Years’ War is raging and Crowley suddenly feels an urgent sense of panic coming from the direction of Bavaria. The fear has such an angelic quality to it that it _must_ have something to do with Aziraphale. Crowley has been hanging around London, having a lovely time tempting visitors to the Holland’s Leaguer brothel, but he drops everything and translocates himself over seven hundred miles and finds the angel on a battlefield being attacked by three demons disguised as soldiers. Crowley takes on the form of a soldier from the opposing side, keeps his face covered and his demonic power low and helps to fight them off, but eventually has no choice but to decapitate and thereby discorporate all three of them. Aziraphale’s indignation at him killing them kicks off an argument which lasts intermittently for four days, but the fact that the angel is safe and they also spend the four days drinking together and catching up on each other’s news makes it worthwhile.

In October 1706 Crowley feels Aziraphale’s panic again and rushes to London. He finds the angel in a newly opened tea room on the Strand, standing at the door to the kitchen and fending off several men with knives who are trying to rob the place of its stock. Afraid to use miracles in case he should harm them, he’s striking at them with a tea tray. Crowley promptly miracles the men into the nearest jail, then laughs at Aziraphale’s indignant protests until he’s nearly sick. They go out drinking for three nights.

He wonders later whether Aziraphale would get the same feeling if Crowley ever got himself into danger.

In 1793 Crowley’s in America keeping an eye on George Washington, someone who Hell is not keen on and so have sent Crowley to try and cause trouble, when his Azirasense kicks in again. He focuses and realises that it’s coming from Paris. What the Heaven is Aziraphale doing there? Last time he met up with him, the angel was planning to put down roots and was going to open a bookshop in London. He shouldn’t be in France, of all places; it’s all kicking off over there. Maybe Heaven sent him there to comfort people about to executed, or who have been mortally wounded during the fighting?

Sensing that Aziraphale is very worried but isn’t in immediate danger, he pauses long enough to put arrangements in place for Washington not to do anything too good while he’s away, then translocates himself to Paris. It takes him a few minutes to find Aziraphale’s exact location, and he lurks outside the cell in the Bastille while he listens with bemusement to the angel’s mangled French and indignant protests to the executioner. Aziraphale still isn’t in imminent danger and Crowley decides to await the moment when he can make the most dramatic and flamboyant entrance. It doesn’t take long, and he changes his outfit and miracles himself into the cell and drapes himself nonchalantly on a ledge before stopping time. He _could_ just whisk Aziraphale away but he wants to make the most of his brave and noble rescue. It never hurts to have an angel owe you a favour.

Aziraphale’s explanation for being in Paris leaves Crowley reeling. Why does he even like this idiot?! Why did he bother seeking him out and saving him? He’s a moron! But ... Crowley can’t help admitting to himself that Aziraphale is a rather appealing moron. That outfit – ridiculous and dangerous though it is – looks perfect on him, and the fact that the angel is such an innocent that he thought it would be fine to come here just to get a nice lunch makes Crowley want to smile. He sternly fights it off. He didn’t come here to be nice; he’s _never_ nice. It’s against his demonic principles to be _nice_. He came here to be the gallant rescuer.

Wait – why does he need Aziraphale’s admiration anyway? They’re immortal enemies, working for opposite sides, and despite the convenience of the Arrangement it shouldn’t matter to Crowley whether Aziraphale appreciates him or not.

Crowley angrily shrugs it off, blaming the translocation and the time-stopping. Both of them have weakened and exhausted him, though he’ll never admit it aloud, and clearly he’s not thinking straight.

He allows Aziraphale to take him out for crepes. When the restaurant closes Aziraphale almost shyly suggests that they go on for drinks, and Crowley – who has spent more time in France – leads him to an inn he knows and they settle down at a quiet table and order several bottles of wine.

So far they’ve been doing their usual swapping of stories about what they’ve been up to since they last saw each other, but Crowley is starting to flag. He really could do with a quick kip – just three years or so, maybe five – but he doesn’t want to call it a day yet. Thankfully Aziraphale starts chattering excitedly about the bookshop he’s hoping to open. He has his eye on a building in Soho which he thinks would be just perfect. He has decided not to use a miracle to persuade the owner to sell it because that wouldn’t feel right, but he’s not averse to miracling up enough money to make it worth the owner’s while. He continues by telling Crowley in detail his ideas for the layout of the shop and how he’s planning to shelve his massive collection of books using a unique cataloguing system that he’s thought up himself. Crowley, more tired than he wants to admit aloud and finding it hard to concentrate, lets his mind wander as the angel witters on, and before he knows it he’s thinking back to their last moments in the Bastille cell.

He admits to himself that he was startled when Aziraphale didn’t just miracle up a new outfit in the cell but actively chose to swap costumes with the executioner. His excuse that that barely counted as a miracle causes Crowley to frown now that he thinks about it properly. At the time he was quite impressed by Aziraphale sending the man to his potential death. Crowley himself couldn’t care less about the man; he’d been gleefully killing people _and_ keeping count so he deserved everything that was coming to him. In fact, Crowley had considered nudging Pierre at the guillotine to make sure that he let go of the rope too soon again; but now that he thinks about it, it seems strange that an angel as gentle as Aziraphale should have potentially brought about the death of a human being. It was Crowley who made it impossible for the man to speak and thereby unable to protest his innocence (he only wanted to scare him; he assumed that _someone_ would recognise him before he actually got to the guillotine) but why didn’t Aziraphale do anything to save him?

Crowley starts to worry. Is he having a bad influence on him? Is he corrupting him? With all the times that he has nudged Aziraphale into going against Heaven’s wishes, is the angel losing his goodness and starting to turn dark? What if he can’t hide it from his superiors? What if they decide to punish him for his misdemeanours? Could Crowley cause Aziraphale to Fall?

And why should he care if he does? All right, Aziraphale is good company, and the Arrangement has been very useful over the centuries and has given Crowley some great opportunities for skiving off, but it’s not like they’re friends or anything. Actually, if Aziraphale does Fall, the two of them could pair up and make a kick-ass team. They could spend even more time together. Crowley could wangle it so that he becomes Aziraphale’s mentor. He could teach him everything he knows; they could travel the world together causing mayhem ...

No! The thought of Aziraphale with his wings burned and then blackened once they grow back, and a demonic creature on his head urging him to carry out hideous deeds makes him feel nauseous. He can’t help visualising Aziraphale, his face twisted in an evil grin, gleefully causing harm and anguish and grief and relishing every moment.

Crowley gags. He will do everything – anything – he can to prevent that from happening. He’ll protect the angel with his own life if it comes to it.

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale asks him. “Is there something wrong with the wine?”

Crowley stares blankly at him.

Aziraphale looks worried and lays a hand over his. “Is anything wrong?” 

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, pulling his hand away and taking a large swig of wine. It _does_ actually taste bad, but he doesn’t think it’s anything to do with the vintage.

“I’m not boring you, am I?” Aziraphale asks, looking a little embarrassed.

Crowley pulls himself together and forces a small smile. “Not at all,” he says. “You just keep talking, angel.”

‘Angel.’ He _keeps_ calling him ‘angel.’ Why does he do that? It’s never been intended as an insult. Even back in Eden he already felt reluctantly drawn to the being who was supposed to be his enemy but who had been kind and generous despite Crowley’s recent actions. Whenever he has thought about his angel _( his angel? Doesn’t he mean the angel?)_ over the centuries, he has always remembered his smile up on the wall and – if he’s honest with himself – frequently goes out of his way to make him smile like that again. What’s going on? He’s supposed to be bad and wily and thwarty and shouldn’t be doing stupid things like trying to make hi... _(bless it all the way to Hell and back)_ an angel smile for him.

He batters his thoughts down and tries to give the angel a reassuring look. Aziraphale examines his face for a little longer, then nods and sips from his own glass before continuing to tell him his exciting plans.

Crowley turns his gaze away and stares across the inn, his thoughts in turmoil.

Satan preserve him, is he falling in love with his ... _(bugger it)_ an angel?

* * *

It’s after he returns to London some months later that Crowley, desperate for something to distract himself from his realisation of his feelings for someone he really shouldn’t be having feelings for, buys an apartment in Mayfair (its proximity to Soho has absolutely nothing to do with his choice, he tells himself firmly), and sets about ripping it back to its bare walls. Redesigning the interior should keep him extremely busy, and it will also keep his mind occupied from thinking about a certain angel.

It doesn’t work. The _redesigning_ does. The distraction doesn’t.


	8. 1862 - St James's Park, London

“I don’t need you.”

“And the feeling is mutual, obviously.”

Aziraphale tosses the piece of paper onto the surface of the lake, angrily setting it on fire to emphasise his point. He storms back to the bookshop, spending the rest of the day frenetically cataloguing his latest delivery of books and then slamming them onto shelves with more fury than they deserve. Half the time he doesn’t even put them where they ought to be, stomping around the bookshop shoving them haphazardly next to tomes with a similar theme. Once he has calmed down he’ll have to move them to more obscure locations, otherwise customers will actually be able to find similar books in similar places, and that will never do.

His mind is preoccupied with this morning’s conversation. No – that wasn’t a conversation. It was a full-blown argument, and Aziraphale still can’t make any sense of it. What is Crowley thinking?! Does he really think that Aziraphale cares so little about him that he would just hand over holy water and give him a means to destroy himself?

 _“And the feeling is mutual, obviously.”_ He didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean it at all. He wants to believe that Crowley didn’t mean to say _“I don’t need you”_ either, especially in such a vicious tone. They’ve often argued over the centuries, but Crowley has never sounded so angry before, so savage, so hateful. It hurts to remember his voice sounding as if he truly meant it.

He cringes when he remembers reminding Crowley that he is a fallen angel. Why was he so unkind? He didn’t mean to be. It was just that seeing him after a few decades and remembering again just how much he cares about him confused him. Desperate to hide his feelings he had tried to be nonchalant, treat their relationship as a casual thing, nothing important. Oh, that backfired badly and he’s shocked when he realises how cruel he must have appeared. It’s no wonder that Crowley was angry. He’s angry at _himself_ , even if he does understand why he reacted that way.

Aziraphale’s shock at seeing those two words on that piece of paper still haunts him. The terror is two-fold: the thought that Crowley wants something which could destroy him is horrifying; but Aziraphale isn’t a senior enough angel to be able to procure holy water easily anyway. The water used in churches is low-grade and has little power; if Crowley expects him to acquire some high-octane water direct from Heaven, how is he supposed to do that and find a valid reason for even asking? Does Crowley care so little about him – has their friendship meant so little to him – that he’s more than willing to endanger him?

Surely that can’t be true. And it’s not as if Crowley would know that – at a pinch and only if it’s absolutely vital – Aziraphale is actually capable of blessing holy water himself to give it more power. It would take a great deal of effort but it could be done, but he has no intention of ever taking such a step. Give him a means to destroy himself? Why would he ever do that? Doesn’t Crowley understand how important he is to him?

 _“Just insurance.”_ What sort of ‘insurance’ could he possibly mean? What has happened in the years since they last met to make Crowley so afraid that he might take such a drastic measure? Is Crowley in imminent danger? And if he is, why has Aziraphale walked away from him? He ought to be by his side and helping him, not standing in his bookshop shoving books into the wrong (right) place.

But how can he even consider trying to make amends after what he said?

He walks across to the sofa at the side of his desk. He bought it shortly after opening the bookshop; he saw it in a second-hand furniture shop and thought it would be ideal for the office. Even as he walked into the furniture shop he’d wondered why he wanted it. He never sits on comfortable padded furniture by choice, preferring something solid and upright when he sits down at all. He actually prefers to stand, a knock-on from his time upstairs. Angels don’t sit down as a rule. He’s had to sit down more on Earth, if only to blend in with the humans, but he always feels awkward when forced to sit on something soft and yielding and _comfortable_ , as if he doesn’t deserve to feel relaxed. 

It wasn’t until Crowley’s first visit that Aziraphale realised exactly why he’d bought it. Crowley strolled around the shop, examining the shelves and making facetious comments about Aziraphale’s deliberately bewildering filing system, then wandered into the office when Aziraphale offered wine. At the first sight of the sofa he said, “Oh, nice!” and took a run at it, hurling himself onto it as if attempting to break it, then rolled sideways, stretching out along the length and immediately draping one leg at an impossible angle over the back. He looked adorable as he held out one hand and demanded, “Wine.” They’d polished off four bottles that night.

Aziraphale sits down on the edge of the sofa as if he’s afraid to touch it. He perches there for a very long time, lost in thought, lost in pain, lost in regret, then eventually groans and rolls over to lie along its length. He wriggles repeatedly into the cushions, trying to pretend that he’s not hoping that his body warmth will release the scent of its usual occupant.

Right now, he’s very afraid that Crowley will never sit on it again.

* * *

Crowley has avoided seeing Aziraphale as often as they usually would, worrying that he might reveal too much about his feelings if they meet up frequently. He wonders whether Aziraphale was lying too when he repeatedly declined to share assignments over the recent decades. Has he sensed Crowley’s feelings for him and is going out of his way to avoid him?

He reluctantly admits to himself that he’s missed him terribly and doesn’t want to spend the rest of eternity without him. But if they’re going to carry on this Arrangement ... this _friendship_ ... both of them need to be safe. Crowley can summon up hellfire on his own if Heaven sends anyone down to face him or Aziraphale, but if Hell gets wind of their association and decides to take action against the being who is ‘corrupting’ Crowley, the angel will need protecting. Crowley is sure now that whenever Aziraphale is in danger he’ll know it, but he can’t fight any demons sent to deal with him without the risk that they might survive and report back. That, after all, was why he killed the three demons in Bavaria before they could recognise him. If demons come for Aziraphale now, he’ll have no choice but to destroy them. With a bit of luck and a lot of smooth talking to his bosses he can claim that Heaven itself stepped in to protect its own. He can also surely blag his way through an explanation that he was only associating with the angel in order to corrupt _him._

He’s spent a lot of time wondering whether it’s wise to meet up with the angel again, but his need to protect him finally forced him to send him a letter insisting on a meeting, claiming that it was important. When Aziraphale arrived at the park Crowley couldn’t even bear to look at him, afraid that he might give away the emotions totally inappropriate for a demon. He’d even redesigned his glasses to have side pieces so there was no risk of Aziraphale seeing his eyes.

 _“Look, I’ve been thinking. What if it all goes wrong? We have a lot in common, you and me.”_ He’d wanted to remind Aziraphale that they weren’t on opposite sides. He didn’t expect him to bring up his most painful memory in such a pompous tone of voice. Calling him ‘fallen’ had really hurt. He’d tried to shake it off with his ‘sauntering vaguely downwards’ comment and then attempted to bring the topic back on track. And Aziraphale had again tried to avoid and divert the subject. _“I like pears”_?! What sort of bollocks was that?

In some ways he’d been relieved that Aziraphale showed concern at his request for holy water, but Crowley was truly hurt when he went on to describe their relationship as “fraternising.” His sharp response of “I don’t need you,” wasn’t meant, of course. Crowley has never needed anyone but Aziraphale, but if he ever finds out how _much_ Crowley needs him he’ll be appalled. A demon having _any_ feelings is ridiculous; having feelings for an angel, for Aziraphale himself, will either make him laugh himself sick or – more likely – will make him look at Crowley in horror and end the Arrangement on the spot.

And Crowley can never tell him. _Will_ never tell him. Probably won’t get the chance even if he wants to, if this morning’s fiasco is anything to go by.

He storms into the plant room and picks up his biggest set of shears. The plants freeze, not even daring to tremble. He stalks towards them, then simply can’t be bothered. It’s too much effort and he’s too weary to even consider doing them violence right now. He drops the shears on the floor and slouches away into the adjoining room.

Walking across to the table he slumps down hard onto his throne. It’s as uncomfortable as ever and he looks across to the chair at the side of the room, wondering whether to relocate over there. He’s never actually sat on it; he only bought it so that Aziraphale would have somewhere to sit if he wanted to, but so far he’s never visited the apartment. To be fair, Crowley has never invited him over, convinced that the angel will hate it. But when he was designing the interior and buying the minimum amount of furniture required so that the apartment would be open and spacious and nothing like the cramped conditions of Hell, he’d thought about whether Aziraphale might ever visit and bought a chair for him to sit on if they fancied spending an evening here. It’s similar in style to his throne but the seat is more deeply padded so that the angel will be comfortable.

He grinds his teeth. He won’t sit on it. It’s Aziraphale’s chair, even if he’s never used it. And after the way he just treated his best and only friend, the being who he loves even though he shouldn’t, the being to whom he was so savage earlier today, he doesn’t deserve to be more comfortable. If anything, he ought to rip out the padding on the throne and sit on the bare surface. Maybe add some spikes to make it even more painful.

Crowley realises that he’s missing the sofa in Aziraphale’s office. He loves that couch; it’s soft and squishy and perfect for sprawling over while they drink the night away.

Right now, he’s very afraid that he’ll never sit on it again.


	9. 1941 - London - The Church

There’s been no contact between them for seventy-nine years. Time and again Aziraphale has thought that he ought to take the first step in making amends but he has never had the courage, terrified that Crowley will reject his attempt, will remind him that neither of them needs the other and will then cut of all means of further communication.

So when Crowley comes limping into the church just in time to save him from discorporation, it’s far more than Aziraphale deserves and – much as he tries to be nonchalant about his arrival – his mind is racing. How could Crowley have known that he’s here and at risk of his human body being killed? And why did he come? They fell out so badly last time they met. Aziraphale thought their friendship was over and yet here he is, not only coming to his rescue (again) but in a _church_ of all places, putting himself through physical agony just to help an idiot angel who couldn’t even realise that _he_ was the one being played for a sucker.

Aziraphale may be all of a dither with the speed at which events continue but it doesn’t stop him remembering to put on his hat to protect his hair from the brick dust just before he miracles a bubble of energy around himself and Crowley. He has standards, after all. It’s only once the dust is beginning to settle and he releases the bubble that he wonders why he didn’t even think about protecting the humans as well. Yes, they’re obviously bad people – that’s why he allowed Rose (Greta) to recruit him, not knowing that she was just as bad as Glozier and Harmony – but he hasn’t spent enough time with any of them to know if they were truly evil and deserving of eternal torment after their deaths. He realises that he was guided by Crowley’s actions and just followed along. He also realises that he was angry – _really_ angry – when Mr Harmony told his colleagues to kill them. If he’d only wanted Aziraphale dead, Aziraphale might have tried to deflect any bullets but his rage – and it _was_ rage, an emotion unworthy of an angel – had been instant at the thought of anyone wanting to kill Crowley. If he had protected the Germans from the bomb they might not have been shocked enough by the explosion and might still have made an attempt on Crowley’s life, and that simply could not be permitted. He can’t bear to even think about it – if Crowley’s human body was discorporated, what if he was interrogated in Hell (he doesn’t want to think the word ‘tortured’) and was forced to reveal details of the Arrangement? What sort of punishment would Hell mete out to a demon who had been defying them?

It’s not until later, when he’s numbly following Crowley out of the ruins while clutching his bag of books, that he realises that while he was manifesting a protective bubble, he could have extended it to the entire area around the church. He tries desperately not to think how many humans died while he was only protecting his friend. 

Friend? He’s much more than a friend, Aziraphale realises again. And while Aziraphale was selfishly not thinking of saving anyone or anything other than Crowley, Crowley had had enough presence of mind to realise how upset Aziraphale would be at the loss of his books and used his own magic to protect them. It’s an incredibly kind – and totally unexpected – gesture from a demon, especially one who owes him no favours at all and who should, by rights, have left him to be destroyed after the spiteful treatment he’d given him last time they met.

Aziraphale is lost in his thoughts during the drive back to the bookshop and doesn’t even think to comment about Crowley’s new car, or how ludicrously fast he drives it through the dark streets. He doesn’t speak until they arrive in Soho, when he realises that the least he can do is offer Crowley a drink. Crowley too seems to be distracted by something, but nods and follows him inside. Aziraphale checks that the blackout blinds are properly drawn before turning on a few lights, then leads his friend (much more than a friend) to the office. Crowley slumps down onto the sofa ( _his_ sofa), takes off his hat and glasses and tosses them in the general direction of away and, over the course of the next few hours, proceeds to get very drunk indeed while barely speaking or responding to Aziraphale’s attempts at conversation. Aziraphale doesn’t understand why, trying to tell himself that he’s simply tired after the effort of diverting the bomb from its intended course, but eventually Crowley sighs heavily and runs his hand through his hair.

“That’s the first time I’ve actually killed humans,” he says dully.

Aziraphale opens his mouth but can’t think of anything to say.

“I don’t feel guilty about it,” Crowley continues, though the tone of his voice suggests otherwise. “Why should I? They were evil, truly evil people, willingly working for that lunatic in Berlin who’s been killing thousands and thousands of decent humans. They were totally aware of what they were doing. They weren’t innocent pawns. Those three were doomed to burn in the worst fires of Hell for eternity, and they’re not the only ones. Hell has got a list so long that they’re having to tunnel out a huge extension to fit in all the souls that’ll be coming their way. All I did was send those three there earlier than scheduled, and they deserve it. They deserve it. They do. They really do.”

He rubs his hands over his eyes, repeatedly mumbling, “They do.” Clearly he’s not totally convinced if the haunted look in his eyes is anything to go by.

“Crowley, I think you need to sober up,” Aziraphale says gently.

Crowley grimaces. “Not yet,” he says. “S’bad enough thinking about it pissed.”

“D...” Aziraphale gasps and shuts his mouth. Was he about to say, “darling”? What was he thinking? He can’t use terms like that! He sucks in a breath. “Don’t fret about it,” he says instead. “You gave them the chance to run away. It was more than they deserved.”

Crowley shakes his head. “They’d never have made it to safety. I was a coward – just wanted them out of the church so I didn’t have to watch them die.”

He groans. “Change the subject, Aziraphale, please.”

“All right,” Aziraphale says. “Why did Rose ... I mean, Greta ... call you the famous Mr Crowley?”

“Been hanging out with the German spy network,” Crowley says dully. “Didn’t even need to tempt them to damn their souls; they were doomed to go to Hell long before I met them. I was just learning what they were planning, and if those plans were going to bring about a lot of deaths I encouraged them, helped them to refine their plans. If they were truly gleeful about it, with no sense of remorse at all, I sent their names downstairs to be moved up the list. I made sure that most of their plotting was thwarted, but they didn’t know that, of course. They thought I was a great ally. Then I asked for other demons to step in to arrange their actual demise. Claimed I was too busy fomenting to have time to do any killing.”

He sighs. “That’s not changing the subject, you know.”

“Sorry.” Aziraphale looks around the bookshop for inspiration and sees the items which Crowley tossed aside earlier. “I like your hat,” he says.

Crowley lowers his chin with the intention of peering over the top of his glasses at him, then looks confused until he realises that he’s not wearing them.

“Really? Is that the best you can manage?” he asks witheringly.

“All right,” Aziraphale says apologetically, then remembers something. “How did you know I was in trouble?”

“Azirasense,” Crowley mumbles.

“Excuse me?”

“Can sense when you’re in trouble. You radiate an SOS and I pick it up.”

“Is that even possible?” Aziraphale asks.

“Apparently.” Crowley shrugs. “Dunno why.”

Aziraphale has no answer for that, and clearly Crowley is in no fit state to explain in more detail. He realises how exhausted he looks.

“Why don’t you lie down and have a nap?” he suggests.

Crowley looks up at him, apparently unaware – or not caring that Aziraphale will see – that his eyes are wet. He nods wearily and rolls over sideways on the couch and closes his eyes. Aziraphale stands, picks up the blanket draped over the back of the sofa and carefully spreads it over the demon. He sits down nearby and watches him as his breathing slows, aching at how much his thoughtless and irresponsible actions have caused pain to the being for whom he now fully accepts he has far too many feelings.

He’s convinced that Crowley has fallen asleep but a few minutes later Crowley mumbles something sleepily.

“What was that, dear?” he asks. Bless it! He really is going to have to watch himself to stop these endearments slipping out.

“I’d do it again,” Crowley murmurs. “I’d do it again and again if it kept you safe.” He snuffles. “I’ll destroy any demon who comes near you. Don’t want to kill more humans, but I’ll do it if I have to. I’ll always keep you safe.”

It’s only once he’s definitely asleep that Aziraphale admits to himself that he would do – has _already_ done – exactly the same to protect Crowley. He will never let harm come to him. He will die first. He will Fall first. He will condemn himself to eternal Heavenly punishment or Hellish damnation first.

“I love you,” he mouths to his sleeping friend, his best friend, his dearest love. It feels like it should hurt, that he ought to be struck down from above, or wrenched back to Heaven for immediate punishment, but there’s no pain, no retribution, no punishment. Aziraphale may be an angel committing the ultimate sin of falling in love with a demon but this feels as if it was always meant to be. 

He silently repeats the words, no sound coming from his mouth, his lips barely moving but his heart pouring out the truth while he gazes with devotion at the wonderful being who is so close by and yet so far away.

“I love you.”

* * *

Crowley wakes several hours later with a mouth that tastes like a sewer and a stabbing pain behind his left eye. He’s so tired that he doesn’t even have the energy to cure himself. Diverting the bomb last night was quite the effort: he had to get into the head of the plane’s pilot and compel him to change course, and then the other crew members had to be persuaded to drop the bomb anyway, against their specific instructions from bomber command. Add to that the pain which is still lancing through the soles of his feet, and he’s had quite the night, without even thinking about his murder of three albeit deserving humans. Quite frankly if he doesn’t get some time off for this, he’s going to drop with exhaustion. He decides he’ll simply send a message downstairs saying that he’s going deep undercover for the next couple of years and then disappear off-grid – or, rather, go to bed and batten down the hatches so he can’t be found. He’ll think up valid excuses later.

And once he’s rested, he can start planning how to get holy water from a church. He’s surprised he didn’t think of it before now.


	10. 1967 - London - Soho

“A nice young man has taken over Narker’s business,” his widow confides to Aziraphale. “Scotch, you know.”

Aziraphale wonders what whiskey has got to do with anything but eventually realises she means that the man is Scottish. She rambles on, confiding in him like people always do when ‘that nice Mr Fell’ is being kind to them. Aziraphale didn’t know Narker – who was regularly in prison for various crimes involving breaking and entering – but Gladys Narker is popular in the Soho area and he felt it was his duty to attend the funeral and bring comfort to the mourners.

“Bit personal,” Gladys continues. “Asked me about my ...” She frowns and gestures to her chest. “I nearly punched his lights out but he said it was important for him to know, and that he’ll see me right when he gets some money. Anyway, he’s going to take on the job Narker was going to do tomorrow.” She lowers her voice and leans closer. “Something to do with robbing a church. He’s meeting tonight with the man who’s organising it. Spike pointed him out to me last Tuesday. He’s a wrong’un, I’m sure. Always dressed in black, wears dark glasses even at night time. I reckon he’s Mafia.” 

She continues rambling on but Aziraphale isn’t listening any more. He’s frozen in horror. Is Crowley really going to try and steal holy water? Admittedly they’ve not seen each other since the incident in the church but Aziraphale hoped that he’d given up that ridiculous wish.

He makes his excuses to Gladys and goes outside, sits on a bench in the churchyard and worries. He knows he’ll never be able to persuade Crowley out of his stupid plan if his mind’s set on it, and eventually realises he has no other choice. After the mourners have left he approaches the vicar and, using his ‘nice Mr Fell’ persona and just a touch of miraculous persuasion, acquires a bottleful of holy water. He takes it back to the shop, puts it onto the desk, then carefully opens the bottle and stares into it with dread. He’s never been afraid of holy water before but this fills him with terror, especially in light of what he has to do next. If Crowley truly needs it and if he was telling the truth about ‘insurance,’ the water needs to be more powerful than a simple vicar can manage. He leans forward, looks into the bottle and begins to give it an angel’s blessing.

He hopes that the tears which drop into the water during the process won’t corrupt it in any way.

When the water is as holy as he can make it, he thinks about how to present it to Crowley. He’ll need to put it in something that can’t easily or accidentally be broken.

* * *

When he gets back from his conversation with Crowley he’s almost hyperventilating. 

He hopes that Crowley got the message. Lord knows it should be blatant enough but then Aziraphale knew what he was doing and Crowley might not notice, too preoccupied with the container’s dangerous contents to realise the meaning of the container itself.

It’s no good – he has to talk to Crowley again. He considers going to his apartment but isn’t sure he could talk rationally in his presence. He doesn’t think he could face him without starting to weep, and if that happened he’d be unable to stop. He _has_ to tell Crowley how much it would hurt to lose him, but he simply can’t do it in person.

He picks up the phone and starts to dial.

* * *

Crowley hasn’t stopped staring at the thermos since he got home and put it carefully onto the table. He’s been sitting nearby and staring at the pattern on the flask. He’s pretty sure that Aziraphale’s trying to send him a message. The thermos doesn’t have that pattern just because Aziraphale is all about the tartan. Crowley remembers Heaven’s tartan; how could he not when the army of angels attacking him and all of Lucifer’s people were wearing it as a declaration of their loyalty to Heaven. Aziraphale’s tartan is different, clearly designed for himself. Crowley knows all about Clan Tartan; he has spent enough time in Scotland over the centuries to understand how it brings about a strong sense of loyalty and devotion to the family.

He noticed that Aziraphale had a tartan pattern on his scarf in 1862 when they met in St James’s Park. He hadn’t had time to comment on it before everything about their friendship went pear-shaped, but thinking about it afterwards he’d mused to himself about how good it looked on him. And he’d still been wearing it in the church, and in the car today, so clearly he has now adopted it and includes it on every – rare – occasion that he updates his clothing.

He blinks. Has Aziraphale deliberately given him his own Clan Tartan as a message which Crowley is meant to understand? Does he consider _him_ as family?

The phone rings. The phone has _never_ rung all the time he’s lived here. Hell contacts him by letter or – occasionally when they want to be very threatening – through his car radio or the TV in the apartment, even though it isn’t plugged in.

He snatches up the phone and holds it to his ear. “What?” he demands.

There’s nothing but shaky breathing coming through the earpiece.

“Who is it?” he asks angrily.

“Crowley?” The voice is quiet and hesitant but unmistakeable.

“Aziraphale?” He hasn’t been this startled since ... well, all right, since about half an hour ago. “What’s going on? What are you doing phoning me?”

“I need to talk to you.” Aziraphale’s voice is shaking. He sounds terrified.

“What’s wrong? Do you need me to come round?” Crowley asks urgently.

“No!” Bless it, why does he sound so scared?

“Aziraphale ...”

“Please. Like this, Crowley. I need us to talk, but please, let it be like this.”

“All right.” He doesn’t understand and he’d much rather they spoke in person, but if this is what the angel wants, so be it. “Tell me what you want.”

Aziraphale lets out a shaky laugh. There’s no humour in it. He pauses for a moment, then draws a breath.

“When I heard what you were planning I thought my heart would break. I wanted to stop you but I realised I couldn’t.” His voice becomes desperate. “Oh, Crowley, _please_ tell me it’s not for you.”

“Aziraphale, I told you before,” Crowley says. “It’s not. You’re the one who’s always saying that Hell will destroy me if they find out about our association.” He can’t tell him the real reason. “This is me being sensible, that’s all; getting in supplies to protect myself if they decide to come for me.”

Aziraphale gasps. “Crowley, are you being threatened?”

“No, no,” he lies.

Of _course_ he lies. He’s not going to have Aziraphale worrying about the recent communication he had from Dagon, telling him that as Master of Torments she has been reading his recent reports and that if he doesn’t pull his finger out and procure more souls, she’ll be summoning him back to Hell for what she euphemistically refers to as ‘retraining.’ He’s seen retrained demons in the past. Some of them never spoke again.

Aziraphale, apparently, knows him too well. “Are you telling me the truth?” he asks.

“Demon,” Crowley says miserably. “Born to lie when it suits me.”

“You weren’t _born_ to lie,” Aziraphale tells him softly. “You’ve _had_ to lie for so long to keep yourself, and _me_ , safe, but you should never feel you have to lie _to_ me even to protect me.”

His voice is shaking as he continues. “I couldn’t bear it if you were gone,” he says. “I don’t think you understand how much you mean to me.”

“ _Stop it_!” Crowley gasps urgently. “We can’t talk like this!”

“I’m not an idiot,” Aziraphale says. “I have strong wards guarding the line between us. No-one can hear us. Just one conversation, Crowley. Please. Just one honest conversation and then we’ll never speak of it again. Can you do that for me?”

Crowley thought he could do anything for Aziraphale but he’s not sure he can manage this without losing his mind.

“Crowley? Are you still there?”

Crowley realises that he’s been staring at the thermos, terrified at the thought of being honest about his feelings. He can’t do this. It’s too much.

“Crowley?”

“Still here,” he mumbles.

“You must know that I love you,” Aziraphale continues. “Not in the way I’m supposed to love everyone, as an angel. I have _never_ thought of you as the enemy, not even when we first met, but my feelings towards you have become so much stronger over the years. You mean everything to me, Crowley, _everything_ , and I cannot imagine spending the rest of my life without you, knowing that I was responsible for your destruction.”

“Azira...” Crowley can’t even get the word out.

“I love you.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft and so full of devotion that Crowley wants to snatch the words out of the air and curl up around them and hold them forever. “I don’t care how bad it gets. If Hell comes for you, you must find me, call me, get me to you any way you can and I will protect you. Crowley, I will always protect you. I’ll find a way to save you. I’ll never let them hurt you.”

He’s weeping openly now. “Promise me, Crowley. Promise that you’ll find me and let me help you.”

Crowley tries to hide the emotion in his own voice. “Only if you make the same deal with me. I’m not the only one in danger.”

“I can take any punishment Heaven chooses to give me.” Aziraphale’s voice is still teary but there’s a firmness to it as well.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says desperately. “You can never talk like this again. It’s too dangerous. Promise me. _Please_. I’ve never begged in my life but I’m begging you now. _Promise_ me.”

Aziraphale is silent for a long time, only the sound of his shaky breathing coming over the phone. Eventually he speaks one word, so full of love that it makes Crowley’s heart ache.

“Darling.”

Crowley’s hand is trembling so badly that he’s struggling to keep hold of the phone, but he speaks the only word which is capable of conveying his feelings. 

“Angel.”

Aziraphale gasps softly. “They mean the same thing, don’t they?”

Crowley closes his eyes. “Yes, they do,” he admits.

“Thank you.” Aziraphale’s voice is full of tears again. “And you have my word. We will not speak of this again.”

“And you have mine that I’ll find you if I’m in danger.” Crowley finds it fairly easy to say the words; he’s not sure if he would keep them if it would put Aziraphale’s existence at risk.

“All right,” Aziraphale breathes. He pauses for a long moment, then clears his throat. Crowley can visualise him straightening up in his chair, mentally girding himself for the long lonely wait ahead of them. He’s probably straightening his cravat too. 

“I think we’ve said enough,” Aziraphale tells him. He laughs briefly. “Probably more than we should, really. I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. I think perhaps we should say goodbye for now, don’t you?” 

Crowley never wants this conversation to end, but he knows that it must. “All right,” he confirms miserably.

Aziraphale takes in a shaky breath. “Goodnight, darling. Keep safe.”

Crowley looks at the thermos and its tartan. Finally he understands its message. It makes him want to weep, but he pulls himself together one more time and pours as much love into his voice as he can manage as he replies softly.

“Goodnight, angel.”


	11. 2019 - Epilogue - Mayfair

It takes only a couple of minutes after Crowley has let them into his apartment before Aziraphale finally breaks down. He has been holding onto his anguish throughout the journey on the bus; was already on the brink of tears sitting on the bench when Crowley was so gentle with him while he reminded him that the bookshop was gone and then offered him somewhere to stay. They are in so much danger and Aziraphale has felt that he must remain strong and find a way for the two of them to face the wrath of those who’ll wish to punish them, but it’s so hard when he’s full of fear and distress and worry.

His anguish has been increased by the sight of demonic remains on the floor, and the opened thermos on the table. He looks at Crowley, who shrugs, leaving Aziraphale to work it out for himself.

“Did Hell send someone to take you?” he asks.

Crowley nods.

“You used the water from the thermos on them,” Aziraphale continues, and Crowley nods again.

Aziraphale sighs. “I’m glad you didn’t have to use it on yourself,” he says.

Crowley throws him a withering look which Aziraphale reads as meaning, ‘Told you I wouldn’t,’ then he starts walking towards the kitchen before turning and looking at him. “Do you want wine, or would you prefer tea?” he asks in that same soft voice which he used on the bench.

Aziraphale stares at him blankly. It’s the first time Crowley has spoken since they got on the bus; the first words since he told him, “We’re going to have to choose our faces wisely,” and Aziraphale finds himself struggling to comprehend the simple question that the demon has just asked him.

Crowley frowns and walks closer to him. “Are you okay?” he asks gently.

Aziraphale looks away and blinks repeatedly. He _has_ to stay strong; they have too much to face and he’s a principality, for goodness’ sake, he was the Angel of the Eastern Gate, he was _made_ to be strong and stern and focussed, and he needs that now if he’s going to keep them safe from Heaven’s and Hell’s wrath. The last thing he needs in his current emotional state is Crowley being kind to him, and he shouldn’t be upset at him for being so considerate. He rebukes himself firmly, tells himself to concentrate on the immediate future, takes a deep breath and straightens up, turning to look at his friend.

It’s too much. Crowley has taken off his sunglasses, and his caring and sympathetic gaze is simply _too much_. Aziraphale whimpers quietly, tears welling up in his eyes. Crowley looks alarmed and steps even closer, taking hold of his upper arms. 

“Angel?” he asks worriedly. “Angel, what’s wrong?”

Aziraphale breaks.

The first sobs take him by surprise and he doesn’t have the strength to hold them back. Within moments he is weeping in anguish, tears pouring down his face as everything finally becomes _too much_ and he can’t cope with any of it any more.

Crowley doesn’t even hesitate. He pulls Aziraphale closer to him and puts one arm around his shoulders and wraps his other hand around the back of his head while Aziraphale sobs despondently into his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale whimpers against his shirt. “I can’t seem to stop.”

“Hush, you,” Crowley tells him. “We’ve been through a lot – you’re entitled to a bloody good cry. Get it all out. I’m here. You’re safe for now. Get it all out, angel.”

Aziraphale tries again to calm himself but the ugly sobbing goes on and on. After a while he realises that Crowley is gently backing him across the room until the backs of his knees hit a chair. Crowley pushes him down onto the seat and bends over him before seeming to realise that he can’t get close enough to his friend like this, and he curses quietly and climbs onto his lap, his knees either side of Aziraphale’s legs. He presses close, his hands cradling Aziraphale’s face and his mouth resting on the top of his head. 

“Don’t bother fighting it, angel,” he murmurs into Aziraphale’s hair. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Aziraphale wraps his arms tightly around Crowley’s back, and weeps in total anguish.

* * *

On the rare occasions that Aziraphale has slept in the past, he has never dreamed. He has read that humans dream on a regular basis but if he had even thought about it he wouldn’t have expected any angel to need or want to dream. If he had given it any more thought he would perhaps have realised that angels don’t have the imagination to create fantasies in their minds. But then – as has been proven more and more frequently recently – Aziraphale is no ordinary angel. Regardless, he has no idea that he _is_ dreaming when he finds himself a long way away from the Mayfair flat. He vaguely remembers finally crying himself out and then falling asleep in Crowley’s arms, still in the chair, but what is he doing here?

He’s standing in the middle of a village – an old village, he quickly realises. The cottages are a mixture of styles, some roofs thatched and others tiled, and even the scent of the air makes him realise that he is somewhere/somewhen in the past, not in a modern-day recreation. He guesstimates that this is the middle of the sixteen hundreds. Why is he here, of all places and times, and how did he get here?

He turns to look around and notices that the village green has been badly burned recently. Most of the grass in the centre of the green is scorched in a circular pattern which is surrounded by the remains of debris – burned logs and sticks mostly, although for some strange reason there are also many roofing nails – scattered all around the burned area. Curious, he walks onto the green and by the time he reaches the centre he has concluded that there was a bonfire in the middle but that somehow there was a conflagration far greater than a simple fire.

A soft chuckle interrupts his thoughts. He looks in all directions and there’s nobody in sight, but a female voice speaks close by.

“Why art thou here, foolish principality?”

He remembers the last time he was addressed that way, albeit in writing.

“Are you ... Agnes Nutter?” he asks tentatively, still looking for the source of the sound.

The voice seems amused. “Mayhap.”

“Can I help you?” he asks politely.

“I am here to help _thee_ ,” the voice tells him. “What is it that thou wishes?”

He doesn’t even wonder at the strangeness of the situation. “I want to save Crowley, to keep him safe,” he says.

“Why wouldst thou wish to save a demon?” the voice asks. “Is he not thy enemy?”

“No!” Aziraphale protests. “He’s my friend.” 

“Just thy friend?” The voice has a teasing quality.

“We’ve known each other for centuries,” Aziraphale explains. “We may have worked for opposite sides but ... he’s still my friend. My _best_ friend.”

The voice sounds more stern now. “Thou art hiding the truth even from thyself, principality. _Why_ dost thou wish to save him?”

“Because he doesn’t deserve to be punished!” Aziraphale exclaims loudly. “He’s done nothing wrong! He – we – just wanted to save the humans. We just wanted to stop the war, to keep the planet safe. I understand the Almighty’s Great Plan, I really do, and She must have Her reasons, and if Heaven and Hell must have their war then I suppose they must go ahead, but it didn’t _have_ to be on Earth, did it? It could have been anywhere in the universe and they didn’t _have_ to kill all of mankind first. They don’t deserve it! There are far more good people than evil ones, and the good people don’t deserve to be destroyed! And Crowley doesn’t deserve punishment for trying to save them!”

He stops for a moment, out of breath. “He doesn’t deserve punishment,” he repeats more softly.

“Thou art still avoiding the question,” the voice says. “Why wouldst _thou_ wish to save a _demon_? Dost thou think thou hast the right to choose his future? Is it not for the Greater Powers to decide his fate, as they should decide _thy_ fate?”

Aziraphale straightens up. “My fate is of no interest to me,” he says firmly. “I want to save Crowley. If I have to be destroyed in order to keep him safe, so be it.”

“And _why_?” insists the voice.

“Because ...”

Oh, it’s too hard to say it, even now, even when it matters so much.

“ _Why_?”

Aziraphale frowns. The voice has changed; it no longer sounds like Agnes Nutter’s. There’s something almost familiar about it, as if he has heard it before but he can’t yet place it. It’s stern, almost terrifying, but somehow he’s not afraid of it. What he _is_ afraid of is making the greatest and most important confession of his long life.

“You must tell me if you wish to save him,” the voice tells him. There’s an air of compulsion about it; Aziraphale’s legs go weak and he feels as if he ought to be kneeling.

And suddenly he recognises the voice. Oh, it’s been _so long_ since he last heard it, and he trembles at the thought of confessing his deepest and most important secret, but he knows that he _must_. It’s the only way to save Crowley.

He raises his head and speaks from his heart.

“Because I love him.”

He is shaking, terrified of the wrath he might face, but he can do nothing but be honest. He says it again.

“I love him, Mother.”

The voice is warmer now. “There, was that so hard? I understand your concern, Aziraphale, but it’s never a sin to love someone. Do not be afraid, sweet angel. Crowley shall be safe, as shall you, provided you can both be brave and face your greatest challenge in each other’s name. Can you do that for him?”

Aziraphale’s voice shakes as he replies, but his heart is resolute. “I can, Mother.”

“Then remember the prophecy, Aziraphale. Choose your faces wisely, my son, and all will be well.”

The voice continues, whispering into his mind and telling him all that he needs to know. Aziraphale gasps at the sense of forgiveness and affection emanating from Her; tears of joy roll down his cheeks as he accepts that She approves of his love for Crowley and will not punish them for it.

The voice is fading now. “Go, Aziraphale. Return to him, and love him.”

“I will. Thank you, Mother.”

The voice whispers once more.

“And know that I Love you both.”

* * *

“You were dreaming,” Crowley tells him as he wakes up to find himself in the chair, still wrapped around his friend ... no, much more than his friend ... his dearest love.

“I don’t think it was a dream,” Aziraphale says vaguely, trying to process what he just experienced.

Crowley suddenly seems to notice that he’s still kneeling over him and straightens up as if to get off the chair. Aziraphale tightens his arms around him, keeping him in place. Crowley trembles slightly but sinks back down into his grasp. Aziraphale decides that he very much wants to hold Crowley like this a great deal more in the future, and he also realises that there’s a good chance that he _can_. He smiles serenely.

“I’ll need your watch,” he tells him. He reaches up and strokes his left fingers gently down the side of Crowley’s face near his eyes. “And your glasses,” he adds.

“What are you _talking_ about?” Crowley asks, looking at him like he’s gone mad.

Aziraphale smiles up at him, then takes his right hand from around Crowley’s waist. He slips off his ring, takes Crowley’s right hand and slides the ring onto his little finger. Crowley stares at him wide-eyed as Aziraphale lifts the hand and kisses the back of it.

“ _Darling_ ,” he says joyfully. “I know how to save us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have number blindness. I can’t do sums to save my life. I really liked Maths in my mid-teenage years but I couldn’t and still can’t do simple sums. Ask me what 6 times 8 is and I have to recite the eight-times table to work it out. Ask me to work out in my head what 48 plus 37 is and you can go and make a cup of coffee and I _might_ have the answer by the time you get back.
> 
> So where this idea came from, I have no clue. There was nothing that prompted it – it just slammed into the back of my head like a cricket bat and said, “Oi! Ari! I’ve got a brilliant idea! Why don’t you write ten chapters based on the Episode 3 cold open, each one the same number of words as the year it takes place in! There you go: prompt given. Now write it!”
> 
> If I’d had someone to glare at I probably would have destroyed them with my Gorgon-like ferocity but as it was I could only glare into space and demand out loud, “Are you out of your bloody mind? Little Miss Can’t-Do-Sums doing something numerical? You’re bonkers! I don’t even know how many words that’ll be in total!”
> 
> It’s a good job there’s a calculator on my phone or I would still be trying to work it out two weeks later. But when I saw that the total was 16,783 I cried.
> 
> “Oh, stop fussing,” the cricket bat said. “Don’t think of it as writing a 17,000-ish word story. You’re writing ten chapters which will each be a separate story. You can write them in any order. Do the short ones first! It won’t take long to write 33 words, or 41 words. Think of it as a challenge.”
> 
> Well, _obviously_ it was going to be a challenge. I just wasn’t sure I was up for it.
> 
> “Course you are,” said the cricket bat. “You’ve been sulking since lockdown began because you weren’t inspired to write anything, and here I am being helpful and all you’re doing is complaining.”
> 
> “Well, maybe you’re right,” I reluctantly mumbled.
> 
> “I am _always_ right,” it said serenely. “Oh, and by the way, you’re also going to have to write an epilogue so that there’s a happy ending. So that’ll have to happen in 2019, and that takes it up to ... go and get the calculator again, dear.”
> 
> And that took it up to 18,802 words, a number which is now burned into my brain for the rest of eternity. No helpful suggestions of _what_ I could write, just the pressing insistence of _how_ I was going to write.
> 
> Because I’m an idiot, I wrote the two short chapters first and then went straight to the epilogue. It came quite quickly and I was very proud of it ... at first, until I realised that now I’d done that, I had no bloody choice but to write all the other chapters, otherwise I could never publish the epilogue. Yeah, maybe it’d work as a standalone story if push came to shove, but it wouldn’t be the same if it wasn’t part of a series.
> 
> I have to reluctantly admit that I actually enjoyed the challenge. There were times when I wanted to throttle Neil Gaiman and demand, “Couldn’t you have put each scene nearer the beginning of a century?!” but it was fun overall. And it’s been years since I last repeatedly found myself walking away from the laptop for a break and then immediately scurrying back because I’d had another idea, or shutting down the laptop for the night and then grabbing my notebook and writing loads more suggestions ready for typing up the next day.
> 
> I hope it was all worth it and that you enjoyed it.
> 
> And just to be even more of a smart-arse – and because the bloody numbers _won’t leave me alone, dammit!_ – this Author’s Note is 666 words long.


End file.
